


Hervararkviða

by oneiriad



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7350976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before leaving his family farm behind to take land in Iceland, Snare has one final thing he needs to take care of...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hervararkviða

**Author's Note:**

> robininthelabyrinth asked for Coldwave, viking AU.

The midsummer heat wave has made him lazy. He's leaning against the fence at the edge of the clearing, right where the forest starts. Sometimes he spares a glance back at the farm, but mostly he's letting his thoughts wander back to another summer's day, just as warm as this one.

He remembers days of walking through the forest, sometimes in the company of merchants or farmers or - once - a group of earnest Christianfolk, but mostly in his own company, as he'd made his way eastwards, towards Birka. He remembers having a half-formed plan to join a ship there, eventually hoping to make his way south to Jomsborg itself.

Many a young man's dream, that. Nobody could ever accuse him of having had original dreams.

It had been a hot summer's day and he'd sat down, seeking shelter from the midday sun in the shadow of an old oak. He'd just dug a slice of cured ham out of his bag when he'd heard the sound of a breaking branch far too close for comfort.

The youth had been standing just a few feet away - well, not standing. Leaning against a tree, and it was anybody's guess how long he'd been standing there, watching him. In front of him lay a small, dry, broken branch.

"What do you want?" Thorbrandr had grumbled, placing a hand on his axe - the other man had been shorter and slimmer than he and had no battle scars that he could spot, but he had a sword and an axe in his belt, and it's not like he could have been more than a year or two his junior.

"Rumour has it that a berserker had spent the night at Kolla Knarrbringa's house. I came to see for myself."

The man's voice was a lazy drawl.

"What's it to you?"

"Two years ago, another berserker came to this area. He challenged old Haukr for his daughter and his farm. They named their first son for his late grandfather just this spring."

"I'm not interested in your farm," he'd grunted, because he hadn't been - at the time, he couldn't imagine a worse fate than being stuck on a farm, far from glory and battle. "Or some farmer's kid," he'd added, mostly to avoid any misunderstandings. It's not that he'd ever minded a good scrap, but he had really rather just wanted to get to eat his lunch right then.

The youth had pushed away from his tree then, and Thorbrandr had almost drawn his axe, except the other man moved slowly, making himself non-threatening even as he approached him. His lips had twisted into a smirk.

"I'd make it worth your while," he'd purred.

The loud bang of the farm door slamming open draws Thorbrandr out of his memories just as they were getting good, and he scowls at the sight of the two men awkwardly making their way outside, carrying a couple of carved, wooden pillars between them.

When the pair of them pass by him on their way along the path to the beach, he calls out: "That the last of it, Red?"

The thrall in question stops to offer him a "Yes" and a sullen look before he waves them on their way - that boy is never going to be happy with his new lot in life. At least he's stopped trying to run away after that time last winter, when a couple of stupid lads from the other side of the river had tried to drag off that blue girl the kid kept insisting was his sister, and Snare had promptly abandoned his knáttleikr game to go and beat the shit out of the pair of them with his stick.

Literally, in one case.

Which might not have been the wisest move, since the boys' father was a respected gothi and had been a berserker once upon a time - but then, it's not like anybody else in the hundred particularly liked them to begin with. Thorbrandr had stopped counting the nith poles years ago. Snare collected the bloody suggestive wooden figures the arseholes would sometimes leave at the edge of their property. He had a favourite, that he claimed looked just like him and Thorbrandr- stupid son of a bitch had even sent an arm ring off to the man he thought had made it, as if it had been a drápa and not a mortal insult.

Speaking of sons of bitches, here's Snare himself, strolling towards him with a shovel slung casually over his shoulder.

"Thought everything was taken care of?"

"Almost. There's one more thing I need to do before we leave," and Snare gestures for him to follow.

It takes Thorbrandr a while to realize that they're heading for the fucking barrow.

"Why the fuck do you want to go there?"

"Did I ever tell you that the land used to belong to my mother's family?" Snare asks. "My mother used to tell me about how they put up that barrow for her grandfather, back in the day. Long before she married Leifr."

He watches as Snare starts digging, using the shovel to slice into the grass covering the barrow entrance.

"Doesn't explain why you want to go back after last time," because Thorbrandr doesn't. He's never afraid of a fight, but there are other things to fear.

"Because we're leaving - and I'm not letting that arsehole keep me from my rightful legacy. Not any longer. Now, help me with this stone."

They're both strong men, but the stone covering the barrow's entrance is still bloody heavy, and slippery from the wet dirt and grass clinging to it.

Inside it's dark and musty. Thorbrandr follows the left wall closely, crouching to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling and carefully ignoring the dismembered thing lying at the other side of the room as he helps Snare topple the stone covering the entrance to the inner chamber.

"Give a shout if the haugbul gets you," he says as Snare crawls through the narrow opening. The joke's in terribly bad taste, especially considering where they are, but he supposes Snare must have rubbed off on him. Still, as Snare's absence grows longer, Thorbrandr keeps glancing towards where it lies, warily. Did it just move? Admittedly, the only sheep that's gone missing since they dealt with it have been wolf-taken, but that's no guarantee, not with this sort of thing...

He startles when Snare reappears, slamming his head against the low ceiling and cursing as he watches his friend dust off his tunic and pull something wrapped in leather out of the grave with him. 

They help each other put the stones back in place, checking to make sure none of the binding runes have gotten scratched - and then the son of bitch proceeds to cheerfully ignore all of Thorbrandr's curious glances at his price as they make their way down to the beach.

They clamber aboard the biggest of the three ships and Snare takes the steering oar as always, his leather wrapped bundle at his feet.

"You know," Thorbrandr offers as he settles down at the first oar, "it's not too late to change your mind."

"I think the farm's new owners might object to that," Snare drawls, adjusting the course a bit to avoid colliding with a fishing boat. "Not to mention the earl."

"I meant it's not too late to try to catch up with your sister and that Rahman fellow of hers. I hear Serkland's nice this time of year."

"Too hot for my tastes. Besides, I thought you wanted to see the burning mountains?"

"I do," because oh, he does. "But I know you. You'll miss her."

Snare doesn't answer, just hums and then shouts for the sail to be set.

Thorbrandr pulls his oar aboard, plugs the oarhole and then clambers over a pile of rope to settle down next to where Snare is standing.

"Are you going to show me what was so important you just had to go graverobbing?" he finally asks, because fine, if it has to be that way.

"I thought you'd never ask," and Snare pushes the bundle towards him with a foot.

Arsehole.

Thorbrandr unwraps the bundle and finds…

"Snare. These are Ulfberht swords."

"Yes."

Damn him straight to Muspelheim, the arsehole's all but laughing at the awe in his voice.

"We could have been kicking arse and taking names with a pair of Ulfberht swords for years, you son of a bitch."

"We've been doing just fine without them, Thorbrandr. Besides, I wasn't going to get them as long as we were still going to stay in the area. One draugr in a lifetime is more than enough excitement for me."

Thorbrandr grunts and bends closer to study the weapons.

"They used to belong to my great-grandfather and his foster brother. If I remember correctly, the one with the silver wrapped around the hilt is named Gunnr's Icicle."

Thorbrandr reaches down, ignoring the tarnished silver in favour of the other sword, gold gleaming like fire in the sunlight.

"And that one is Yggr's Fire. I was thinking that'd be yours."

Thorbrandr grins. Snare might be a bit of an arsehole, but he always gives the best presents.

**Author's Note:**

> Hervararkviða is the name of an old Norse poem. It tells the story of the shieldmaiden Hervor, who forces her dead father Angantyr to hand over her rightful inheritance, the sword Tyrfing. It seemed appropriate.
> 
> The name Thorbrandr literally means Thor's fire. It seemed an appropriate viking name for Mick Rory, since his own archangelic name seemed a bit - not appropriate to me. The name Snare, meanwhile, means fast or sharp.


End file.
